


Ho Ho Holy Shit (or how to host a Christmas party, Earthling style)

by SolainRhyo



Series: Earthling-Verse [3]
Category: Transformers, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Christmas Gift Fic, Christmas Party, Cybertronians learning human tradition, Earthling and Ultra Magnus, Earthling hosts a party, F/M, fun in the snow, snowballs, tis the season
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:53:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21883309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SolainRhyo/pseuds/SolainRhyo
Summary: Earthling hosts a Christmas party for Autobots and humans alike.(Companion fic toBurn a hole in the old grip of the familiar.)
Relationships: Earthling/Ultra Magnus, Human/Ultra Magnus, Reader/Ultra Magnus
Series: Earthling-Verse [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1525721
Comments: 8
Kudos: 135





	Ho Ho Holy Shit (or how to host a Christmas party, Earthling style)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SerendipitousSong](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SerendipitousSong/gifts).



> This is a Christmas gift fic for The Person of Names Both Varied and Numerous, who is basically just the best ever. <3

You’re hosting Christmas. You’re not quite sure how it happened this way. Well, yeah you are. Jack and Raf, never having experienced snow, badgered you incessantly to throw a Christmas party at your place. For everyone. Autobots included. You’re not much for hosting. It’s a lot of work and unnecessary stress. ~~Perhaps~~ you’re just lazy.

“Sure,” you told them. _“If_ you can get Optimus’ permission.”

You were fairly certain that the leader of the Autobots, He Who Oozes Austerity, would give speak a firm but gentle “Nay” to their request. What you didn’t realize, what the devious boys neglected to mention, was that both Smokescreen and Bumblebee were advocating for this party too. Since it looked like they were going to be here for the foreseeable future, some of the Autobots were making more of an effort to become better acquainted with human traditions. Thus, much to your dismay, the boys called you up two weeks before Christmas to announce that Optimus had in fact gave them the go ahead.

“Great,” you said faintly, staring around your comfortably messy home while thinking about the amount of work that needed to be done. 

Operation Energon was still ongoing, though winding down as most the energon deposits in the area had been depleted. Soon the FOB would relocate to another part of the world and while you were looking forward to having your yard back, you were also a little sad. You’d miss having one or more of the Autobots often nearby. Maybe this party could be a send-off, then. Maybe it could serve as a festive conclusion to their time spent here. You gradually warmed to the idea. 

Ultra Magnus, as constant a companion to you as duties permitted, was both mildly amused and curious about what a Christmas party would entail, which you exploited in short order. You’d recruited him to help you in stringing Christmas lights across your yard, trying to sort the strands into loops that you draped over his (full-sized) shoulders and arms as he knelt in front of your house. He waited with the patience of someone who loved you but also sort of wanted to throttle you, maybe more of the latter when it dawned on you that you could plug these strands in under the premise of checking for broken lights when your real intention was to take a picture of him to share with the others. Which you did. The moment the flash went off his eyes widened in alarm and he reached for you but you scurried backward out of his reach while furiously mashing “Send” on your phone. 

_“Earthling!”_ he fairly growled, reaching for you again. You were cowering beneath your deck at this point, grinning as you stared at the picture of Ultra Magnus kneeling in the snow, bedecked in colorful lights and staring off into the distance. He looked rather regal, in a seasonal festive kind of way. You really doubted he’d be enthused by that fact.

He wasn’t. When you explained to him how much you loved the picture, however, he grudgingly acquiesced to you keeping it. You didn’t bother letting him know the others would have seen it by now. You wanted that experience to go unspoiled. You coaxed him into helping you finish decorating the yard by sweet-talking him and afterward, grabbed his hand and led his mass-displaced body into the house (where you lost your coat and gloves), into the bedroom (where you lost the rest of your clothing) and into the shower, where you proceeded to show him the full extent of your gratitude. 

In the days after you’d continued with preparations for this party. It was going to be a large crowd – literally, because Autobots. At least you only had to worry about food and drinks for a handful of humans, though you did think to ask Ratchet if they had enough high-grade to spare for the party. He surprised you by saying yes, surprised you even more by expressing more than the minimum of interest in the party itself. You strongly suspected this was the influence of June. 

Ultra Magnus never spoke of the picture you’d taken and shared. It made you uneasy. You’d expected to be scolded, or at the very least have a conversation about it wherein you pretended to be remorseful. He said not a word, not even when you ventured to broach the topic. Instead he slanted you a look that was enigmatic, emphasized by a faint smile that launched your unease into nervousness. You were going to pay for taking that picture. You just didn’t know how. 

So–

Here you are. Party time. You decided to take advantage of the early sunsets that are a staple of Alberta winters and in the 5:00 p.m. darkness your yard is all aglow from the myriad strands of Christmas lights strung between your house, garden sheds, and the FOB. You’d decorated the mayday tree, too, and it’s a nice focal point for the yard. It’s truly lovely December weather for this part of the world, only a few degrees below zero, which means you’re comfortable in just a shirt and hoodie. The natives from Nevada, on the other hand, are freezing, bundled up with red noses and ears. They seem to be enjoying themselves, however, June and Fowler standing near your deck, warming their hands with cups of hot chocolate. The boys are engaged in fun with your brother, who you’d invited because, well why wouldn’t you?

Isaac arrived three days ago to help you with the last bit of preparations. To his credit, he handled Ultra Magnus’ presence in your home with far more aplomb than you’d ever believed him capable of. The two of them don’t really interact, which you’d expected. Instead they kind of just eye each other with varying degrees of wariness, curiosity, and skepticism. You think they’ll warm up to each other eventually. Maybe. 

Isaac took it upon himself to create a bit of sledding course for the boys. He’d borrowed your neighbor’s skid-steer loader and after several hours of impressive dedication had constructed a huge pile of snow in one corner of your yard, perfect for sledding. After a trip to the nearest big(ish) town, Isaac came back with the premier in sleds: two Stiga GT Supreme Snow Racers, one adult sized, the other medium. You read over their impressive list of features, including but not limited to:

  * Durable Steel Tube Construction
  * High Tensile Braking System
  * Two Component Steering Wheel with Spring



“These are a lot fancier than what we had as kids,” you remarked to Isaac as he removed them from their boxes. He was more excited about these sleds than you assumed the boys would be. 

“They should be,” he grunted as he wrestled with a stubborn piece of cardboard, “I paid enough.”

You checked the price tag. _Jesus Christ._ Well, whatever. His money. 

Anyway, the GT racers are in fact a hit, much to Isaac’s delight. The boys are on probably their tenth journey up the snow hill, slipping every other step in the kind of boots they’d never had to wear before, decked out in ski jackets and lined gloves and toques _(beanies for you Americans)_ , also donated by your sometimes jerkish but mostimes big-hearted brother. Isaac’s not neglected his own entertainment tonight – he also bought an adult toboggan. You’re pretty sure a race between the three looms somewhere in the very near future.

As for the rest of the party-goers – Bumblebee and Smokescreen requested to be in charge of music, which was fine by you. Between the two of them there is a very eclectic range in songs, including funk, Scandinavian folk metal, and ambient rock. They’re using themselves as stereos, to great effect, and seem to be the only two who really enjoy the music though you’ve caught both Bulkhead and Knock Out either bobbing their heads or tapping their feet in time with the rhythm. Every now and then a Christmas song is played and weirdly every single time the artist is Boney M. (not that you’re complaining, because the Boney M. Christmas album is fucking fantastic).

Arcee, Wheeljack, and Bulkhead are playing a game of “Throw the Enormous Snowball” near the furthest fenceline of your property. It's something they dreamed up after knocking back a couple containers of high-grade each. You can’t see them for the crest of the hill, but on the regular you catch a glimpse of said snowball as it hurtles through the air with enough force to straight up kill a human. You’re glad Optimus suggested they take their game off into the distance. As for the Autobot leader, he and his second in command are situated near the FOB likely discussing serious business. You don’t mind. Honestly you’re kind of astonished (and flattered) that Optimus even made an appearance. This seems like precisely the kind of frivolous, needless thing that someone of his status would tend to avoid. 

“Earthling.”

Knock Out approaches. You’re standing halfway up your deck stairs and watch as he shrinks down to your size. 

“What’s up?”

“You said you’d show me your horror collection sometime,” he reminds you. “How about now?”

You beckon him to follow. Seconds later Knock-Out, once-scourge and former Decepticon, is standing in your living room, staring at the wall to wall shelf of DVDs and Blu-rays and dripping melted snow all over your hardwood floors. 

“This portion is all horror,” you say with a sweep of your arm.

“You need to get a life,” he scoffs, but steps up and deigns to read the titles at a speed that a human can never hope to match. “Can I…?” he ventures to ask after a few moments.

“Sure, borrow whichever you’d like,” you say magnanimously, and can’t help but add, “But I thought you despised archaic methods of viewing?”

“I can make exceptions,” he says a trifle loftily, “particularly when some of these are so obscure I can’t find them online.”

“Whatever,” you reply, rolling your eyes. “Help yourself.”

Ten minutes later you both walk out of your house, he laden with an armful of your movies. At the bottom of the stairs he supersizes himself, rendering his cargo a mere handful. You’re about to grab yourself a drink when June approaches, followed by Ratchet. The docbot and the nurse have made their relationship public only recently and it warms your heart to see the way he holds her hand in his. 

“I knew it was going to be cold,” she tells you, voice muffled for the scarf that’s obscuring half her face, “but still!”

“This isn’t really all that cold,” you tell her, “but if you need to warm up go on inside. Food’s in there anyway. Help yourself.”

She gives you a grateful nod, patting you on the shoulder as she steps past you to ascend the stairs. You fully expect Ratchet to follow but he doesn’t.

“So colored lights, heated drinks, and outdoor activities are how humans celebrate this season?”

You suspect he’s teasing you. He does that a lot more often of late. “I mean, these are part of it. Christmas is about tradition. Every family has different traditions. These are some of the ones that Isaac and I grew up with.”

“What others are there?”

“Food. So much food. Food for days. Caroling.” At his blank look, you elaborate, “Singing songs of the season. Loudly and out of tune, usually.”

“How is that enjoyable?”

“It just is, Ratchet. Not everything has to be perfect for it to be entertaining. Anyway, gift-giving is the other big tradition, but I’m sure you’re already aware of that.” A thought occurs to you. “Did you get something for June?”

His expression shifts, becoming guarded. “I did.”

You know better than to push. Honestly, the fact that he got her something is fucking incredible. “Good,” you say, “but there’s another tradition. Follow me.”

Ignoring his confused look, you beckon him with one finger and turn to lead him around the corner of your house. There’s a trellis there that in the summer is covered by ivy. Tonight it’s draped in blinking lights and hanging from the center of the arch is the very thing you’d come here for.

“That,” you say, pointing, “is mistletoe. Long story short, long ago warring enemies would reconcile their differences beneath it as a representation of peace. That tradition changed over time. Nowadays, people kiss under it.”

“Really?” Ratchet says, drawing out the word as he steps closer to the trellis, peering closely at the decorative hanging (plastic) mistletoe. 

“Really,” you confirm. 

“Is there a reason you chose to include this particular tradition?” he asks as he eyes you sidelong. 

“Two particular reasons,” you reply. He’s not quite successful at suppressing his smile. “So, maybe here’s a tradition you can discover with June later.”

“Perhaps,” he tells you with an air of nonchalance, which is belied entirely by the fact that he puts an arm around your shoulders and squeezes before walking off. You stare after him in disbelief. Ratchet just gave you a hug.

**.x.**

The evening goes on. The boys (and Isaac) take a break from sledding to grab some food, use the bathroom, drink some more, and go right back to sledding. They seem to be having a blast, which makes you happy. Smokescreen and Bumblebee take a break from DJing and venture over to the snow hill, shouting encouragement and aiding in the return trip by lifting the racers from the bottom to the top. June and Ratchet are conspicuously nowhere to be found. Knock Out, after tipping back a contained of high-grade, went to join the giant snowball game. Fowler has joined Ultra Magnus and Optimus, the three of them likely discussing things less than cheery, but that’s fine. They are who they are. The fact that they’re here is enough. You’re sipping your own hot chocolate now, surveying your colorful illuminated domain and all within it, aware that you’ve got whipped topping all over your upper lip and caring not at all. You take another drink and get a certain feeling, turn your head just a bit and… yep. Ultra Magnus is watching you. The two of you share a look, his one of amused resignation because, well, business at a party. Yours is a little more playful, which you emphasize by sliding your tongue over your lip, licking at the whipped cream. This is something you’ve learned Ultra Magnus very much enjoys (he enjoys anything to do with your tongue, really) and you watch as his expression transitions very quickly into one that’s not at all appropriate for the conversation he’s supposed to be engaged in. 

“Earthling!” 

Smokescreen’s voice. You hear it but take a moment to respond, instead staring at your Autobot lover and enjoying the fact that if there was such a thing as an awkward robot boner he’d be sporting it right now. You wink at him as you turn in the direction of the snow hill, thinking about all the things the two of you will do to each other tonight and then groaning inwardly when you realize that’s not an option because of your brother. Fucking cockblocker.

“Isaac said the two of you used to race,” Jack says as you approach. They’re gathered at the base of the snow hill, which is fully illuminated by the fortuitous placement of your yard light. 

“We did. Long time ago, though.”

“Well, there’s a sled with room for you both,” Raf gestures to the toboggan. You eye it dubiously. They look old-fashioned and quaint but wooden toboggans are nigh impossible to steer and incredibly uncomfortable. Still–

“Let’s do it.”

Minutes later you’re at the summit of the snow hill, staring down in surprise because it’s a lot steeper than you’d imagined. The toboggan is laid out before you and behind you the boys are mounted and ready on their GTs. Isaac’s seated at the front of the toboggan, his knees nearly up to his bearded chin, gripping the comically tiny rope that serves as a steering mechanism. 

“Hop on,” he tells you with a grin. 

You hesitate. The more weight, the faster this sled will go. It doesn’t steer ~~well~~ at all. It’s not a long ride, but still–

“Pussy.” Isaac mouths in a taunt. 

You flip him the bird and step up to the toboggan. You sit near the rear. The logic of aerodynamics as recalled from your childhood requires that you almost wrap your legs around him, which isn’t doable given your adult sizes. Still, you both manage and when all is said and done you’ve got your arms around your brother and your cheek pressed against his back. 

“You look scared,” Jack observes with a cocky smirk from astride his own much flashier sled. 

“Pfft.” you dismiss.

“Are you ready?” Smokescreen nearly shouts. He’s really getting into this announcer gig. Ascertaining that you all are, he begins a countdown better suited to a footrace. “On your marks… get set… _GO.”_

The toboggan lurches forward and plummets. You can’t see anything because of your brother’s back but _holy fuck_ you can feel it. Toboggans have thin wooden horizontal slats on the seat and every time you hit a bump one of them bruises your tailbone. This thing picked up a lot more speed than you thought it would and you’re transported back in time to your childhood, to exhilarating rides like this, the wind stinging your cheeks, your laughter rising on the air. The boys win the race, as it turns out, but when it comes to distance the toboggan takes the cake and you are suddenly coming up on the house with alarming velocity. You bail, tipping yourself off the side and coming to a rolling halt. Isaac bailed too, looks like, and needlessly at that because the toboggan smoothly glides past your house to bump to a halt at a bemused Optimus’ foot. 

You’re laughing. Isaac’s laughing. The boys are laughing. You get to your feet and yelp as snow accumulated from your tumble slips into the collar of your hoodie and slides down the back of your neck. Suddenly inspired, you reach down and grab a handful of the white stuff, swiveling to face Isaac who’s realized your intent and is shouting a warning at you. You let fly and miss. Isaac scrambles to his feet, packing snow into a compact ball as he does so. 

It’s on. 

You haven’t had a snowball fight in twenty-some years, so you’re pretty rusty. Pretty bad, too, particularly against your brother and later, when alliances change, against a teen and a pre-teen. You’ve got snow in your hair, down both your shirts, and in your boots. You’re wet and cold but also sweating because of the exertion and you are having a goddamn ball. June joins in at one point, becoming the third member of Team Adult and for a while it looks like you’re winning until Bumblebee makes an attempt to join, holding a snowball the size of his palm. 

“NO!” You all shout at him collectively.

He looks so sad that everyone feels awful, so you all instruct him in the art of making snowballs that are a safe size, which unsurprisingly is very hard for him to do. So instead the lot of you make a stockpile of snowballs for him to use, which as it turns out is a mistake because he has unerring precision and doesn’t miss with a single fucking one. By the time the war is over you are all of you snow-covered and reeling from that kind of exhaustion that comes from playing with utter abandon. 

“Let’s go inside,” you announce. “Warm up, get a midnight snack, dry off.” 

They take you up on your suggestion, tramping up the stairs and into the house. You realize that all the Autobots seem to have wandered off, presumably in the direction of the giant snowball hurling game because you can hear their voices in that direction. You shrug. Different strokes and whatnot. You head toward the stairs. 

“If I may–”

Ultra Magnus appears from your right, human-sized. He observes your thoroughly dishevelled appearance fondly, reaching out to flick a chunk of snow off your shoulder. 

“This is a side of you I have never seen before,” he remarks in that warm tone that he saves always and only for you.

“Oh?”

“You’re without worry or care...dedicated entirely to merriment.” He’s taken the two steps he needs to be right in front of you and you look up at him with a grin.

“Well, it _is_ that time of year,” you explain. 

“Indeed.” He lifts one hand, holding it above you both. You tilt your head back and laugh with a shake of your head. He’s pilfered the mistletoe from the trellis. “I believe there’s a particular custom you have refused to share with me, however.”

“I was saving it for later,” you tell him, waggling your brows. “But how do you know about it?”

“I was curious,” he admits, leaning down just slightly so that his face is right next to yours. “I did some research.”

“You just wanted an excuse to kiss me.”

“Always,” he says, and then his mouth finds yours. _Keep it chaste,_ you think to yourself, but aren’t able to because of course you’re not. When he exerts just the right amount of pressure to coax your mouth open you’re more than willing to comply, your tongue darting against his as one of his arms goes around you and hauls you closer. _Keep it PG,_ you think a heartbeat before his hand drops to your ass and squeezes. Firmly. The kiss lengthens, both of you completely oblivious to the world around you, until you have to push away in order to be able to breathe a little. 

“Merry Christmas, Earthling,” he says softly, regarding you with that rare smile you love so very much. 

“Merry Christmas,” you say, panting just a little from previous exertions. You suddenly remember that there are people in your house, that you were supposed to join them minutes ago. “I should–” you gesture at the house, a little dazed. Kissing him has that effect on you. 

“Of course,” he nods. 

You turn to make your way back to your house. You make it two steps before you’re hit in the middle of your back with yet another snowball. You yelp, whipping around, to see Ultra Magnus standing before you entirely unrepentant. It’s revenge, you realize, for the picture. You brace for more, asking, "Really?”

He shrugs, smiling. “It looked like fun.”

**.x.**

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you as always for reading! Merry Christmas!


End file.
